


by mistake or design

by kingandqueeninthenorth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:52:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingandqueeninthenorth/pseuds/kingandqueeninthenorth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His people will not bend the knee to anyone other than a Stark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	by mistake or design

He watches the maids dress his little sister, their eyes lingering on the bruises that cover her exposed skin. One of their hands brushes her the wrong way and Sansa gasps in pain.

“Careful,” Robb barks, his voice ringing with authority.

Both maids jump at the sound of his voice, and they stare at him with wide, frightened eyes. Their hands tremble as they go back to dressing her. They work slowly and clumsily, and Robb eventually just waves them away. They give an awkward curtsy and then flee the room.

“Useless,” Robb mutters. He sits on the bed behind his sister and dresses her with the lightest touch he can manage. He handles her like he would a porcelain doll, and she never flinches or cries out. He clothes her in wools and furs, dressing her in the Northern styles she belongs in.

When he’s finished, she looks a bit crooked and disheveled, but she gives him the faintest touch of a smile, and it’s the sweetest thing.

—-

 _Lannister whore._ The first time he hears one of his men say it, Robb beats him bloody.

He grabs the man’s collar and throws him to the ground of the muddy yard. He lands punch after punch, and leaves him with a black eye, a broken nose, and countless bruises. Robb feels no guilt, but he sends his maester to care for the man, and has Sansa tend to his own wounds.

They sit in the dim light of his bedchamber, and Sansa wraps Robb’s bloodied knuckles in linen. Her touch is tender, her face drawn in concern.

“What upset you so?” she asks.

Robb grimaces, flexing his aching hand. “A rude jape, nothing more.”

“It must have been an awfully rude jape,” she says softly. “You nearly killed him.”

“I don’t know my own strength anymore.”

She lays a delicate hand on his thigh and presses her head into the crook of his neck. “I think I’ve become a better liar than you, brother.”

_And it’s my fault. I left you to the lions._

How anyone could’ve laid a hand on Sansa, he’ll never understand.

—-

Robb saved her from King’s Landing, but its demons live inside her.

Sometimes, she screams so loudly that she wakes the whole castle. She claws her own arms bloody while she dreams, murmuring nonsense about Joffrey and loyalty. She begs, and that’s the worst of it. She begs for mercy, her voice breaking with every plea.

Robb spends his nights with Sansa, ignoring the curious eyes that follow him as he walks to her solar.

During the day, she wanders the castle, looking hollow eyed and weary. Most people do their best to stay out of her way, as though they’re afraid of her. She is rarely spoken to. They gawk at her when her back is turned, but look away when she turns her head.

_Lannister whore._

—-

It isn’t long before there’s talk of marriage. The King in the North needs a queen, and more importantly, an heir.

Highborn ladies by the dozen are suggested to him, but every offer is struck down. His people are wary of anyone who isn’t a Stark, and for good reason.

But the Northern people whisper.

_The King in the North already has a queen._

—-

He has a crown forged for Sansa, exactly like his own. It’s smaller than his, but still fashioned from hammered bronze and iron spikes in the shape of longswords. The crown is hard and cold, and beautiful in a rough way. It’s far from the jeweled crown made of gold that Sansa had once dreamed of wearing.

He weds her in a simple ceremony, true to the Northern custom, to unite them completely. They’ll rule together, as The King and Queen in the North.

It silences all whispers of Lannister whore, and commands the respect that Sansa deserves.

His people will not bend the knee to anyone other than a Stark.

And Sansa is a Stark, no matter what they say.

—-

They find each other hungry with want. It brings their lips together in a kiss Robb doesn’t quite understand, and isn’t sure he wants to. It seems to be better to be without questioning, to be driven instead by pure desire.

She’s so desperately lonely. He tastes longing in her kisses. She has no friends, no family but him. It seems strangely fitting that the last two Starks have found a strange love between the two of them. They’re alone in the world, seeking solace in one another.

He thinks of Sansa as a fragile girl, with glass bones and paper skin, but she proves otherwise. They tumble to her bed and she pulls him closer, until their every movement is friction against their skin. He loosens her bodice, baring her from the waist up. His touch on her breasts is gentle, and she flattens his hand against her, demanding more force.

She lifts her skirts and pulls him down to her, before he sinks into her. Anything Robb gives her, she wants more of. Closer, harder, faster. _More_. She meets every thrust with a roll of her hips and Robb doesn’t hold out long, finding release just after she does.

Moments pass, filled him labored breathing and breathy sighs. And then Sansa’s up again, kicking off her skirts and climbing over Robb. She settles over him, bringing her hips down until he fills her again. She throws her head back and makes the sweetest sound. She finds a rhythm all her own, and Robb lets her guide them.

He puts his hands on her hips, helping her find more force. He bucks helplessly beneath her. The sight of her is enough to send him toppling over the edge, the elegant line of her body moving with the sway of their passion. Her auburn hair is matted to her temples with sweat, her expression blissful.

She finishes just after him, slumping over him to press her forehead to his.

—-

Sansa stays confined to her room, retching in her chamber pot and begging Robb not to leave.

“You’re sick, Sansa.” He sits beside her on her bed and runs a hand across her damp forehead. “Shall I call the maester?”

“No!” Her voice is sharp and frantic. She shakes her head. “You can’t.”

“Sansa-”

She takes his hand and brings it beneath her furs, beneath her thin gown. She presses his hand flat against her stomach and looks to him, her expression wary.

“I don’t feel anything,” he murmurs.

“You soon will,” she says softly.

“Oh,” he says, his voice nothing more than a small gasp. He thinks of the sound of tiny feet padding across the castle, of small children with curly auburn hair and bright blue eyes. He thinks of childlike laughter and Sansa with a baby in her arms.

“What will we do?” Sansa sounds small and fearful. “What will they say?”

He hasn’t a clue. He is the king, and she is his queen, but a brother and sister ruling a kingdom side by side is very different than a sister pregnant with her brother’s baby. Cersei and Jaime Lannister lost their heads for such a sin, as did their children.

But this isn’t the South, and Robb doesn’t submit to Southern rules.

_Our way is the old way._

“Don’t fret. I’ll protect you, and the babe.” He kisses Sansa’s forehead and she holds onto his arms as though he may slip away from her.

—-

There are new whispers. Their people say that Sansa glows, shining as though she were made of sunlight. The common folk are drawn to her, giving her well wishes and kissing her hands. Robb watches as they smile at her, bow their heads when she passes, and call her Queen Sansa.

He’s glad to see Sansa embraced by the North again.

The North has a queen, and her belly swells.

—-

He’s a squalling pink thing, born with just the merest bits of auburn hair. His Tully blue eyes are unmistakable, but he’s Stark through and through.

“What shall we name him?” Sansa whispers to Robb over the sleeping babe.

“Eddard,” he offers quietly. “Bran. Rickon. Jon.” The names of their dead siblings quell some of his happiness.

“Eddard,” she says. “A good name. A strong name. Like Father.”

Robb wonders what their Father would think of them now.

—-

Grey Wind makes a deep rumbling noise as he sleeps beside Sansa, who holds Eddard in her arms. It’s a heartwarming sight to see all of them together, and Robb presses a kiss to his sister’s temple.

He doesn’t know what his parents would think of them, but the question no longer keeps him awake at night.

_Is it so wrong for a brother to love his sister?_

He thinks not.


End file.
